Someone else noticed that we had the same habit of touching our hair when we were nervous.
We laughed until our stomachs hurt.
And for the first time, the story of Emily’s adoption no longer felt like an unanswered question.
It had become part of a family history we could finally understand.
A few weeks later, my father gave Emily another surprise.
He handed her a small wooden box.
Inside was a silver bracelet with a tiny heart-shaped pendant.
Emily recognized it immediately from the old hospital photograph.
“Your mother bought this for you,” he said. “She wanted you to have it when you were old enough.”
Emily held it carefully.
“Can you help me put it on?”
My father fastened the bracelet around her wrist.
Then he kissed her forehead.
“Welcome home, sweetheart.”
I had never seen my father cry like that.
Not even at my wedding.
Not even at my mother’s funeral.
